Planning to break into Nestlé was more difficult than Siemens. Maisie made several reconnaissance visits and confirmed Hilda’s observation that, British arm or not, being beholden to their Swiss overlords subsumed the company with a penchant for high order and exactness, which didn’t allow for deviations and unauthorized visitors. But she had to get in. She wanted the evidence of Grigson’s lack of ethics, at least, and if he was found to be engaged in anything worse, so much the better.
After the morning tea break, Maisie knocked on Hilda’s door for their meeting. Hilda was sitting bolt upright in her chair, hand pressed to her heart, staring at a mountain of telegrams.
“Miss Matheson?”
Hilda didn’t look up.
“The American stock market crashed yesterday.”
“But that’s happened before,” Maisie said, remembering her vague attempts to understand the wilderness that was nineteenth-century American banking.
“It appears to be rather bad,” Hilda said, struggling to light a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. Maisie moved to help her just as Phyllida came in with a brandy.
“The whole business of stocks never made much sense to me anyway,” Phyllida said. “Unless they’re talking about cattle.”
Maisie read a few of the telegrams. Whatever a “run on the banks” was, it didn’t sound good.
“So people will get their money, and—”
“There is no money,” Hilda interrupted, her voice hollow. She threw back the brandy in one gulp. Phyllida hovered uncertainly, the bottle cradled in her arms.
“You, er, didn’t have money in American stocks, did you?” she asked.
Hilda glanced at her and shook her head. Then she fixed her eyes on Maisie.
“America was doing a great deal to prop up the Weimar Republic.”
Germany was still struggling. And if there was to be no more American money, and Mr. Keynes and other economists urging the end to reparations weren’t heeded, Germany might become desperate. And here was the example of Italy, who had neatly turned its desperation into a thriving dictatorship. And here were these German patriots, building their agenda, helped by corporate money and ideologues.
“What’s Germany got to do with anything?” Phyllida asked.
“God, I hope nothing,” Hilda said, staring into space. “I really, really hope nothing.” She slipped the bottle from Phyllida’s grasp and poured herself another drink.
The story of the disappearing American money—a magician’s greatest feat—was the only tale told in all the papers. In some there was gloating, because the bounty of American cash had been a source of some irritation in a Britain struggling with its own sluggish economy. In others, there was worry, but only because the crisis was being handled so poorly. There was no whisper of Germany.
“We can’t be the only ones who know, can we?” Maisie asked.
“No. We might be the only ones who care,” Hilda said.
Which wasn’t particularly encouraging.
“Bit of a poor show our homeland’s puttin’ up, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Astor greeted Maisie when she came to broadcast the inaugural Week in Westminster. “Terrible mess. I can’t imagine what the boys were thinkin’, but I daresay they weren’t, and that’s how messes get made. Shouldn’t be surprised if it’s mostly women who do the cleanin’ up, or would, if they’re allowed in.”
Hilda came in to lend further gravitas to the occasion. Billy was finishing the setting up, and the presenter, Miss Hamilton, prepared the introduction. Maisie’s old friend, the fist inside her chest, was the size of a boulder and doing serious damage.
“I find every new program gives me butterflies on its maiden voyage,” Hilda whispered. “You as well?”
“Swap butterflies for pterodactyls,” Maisie said through short breaths.
“You’ve done marvelous work, and I’ve told the DG so.”
Billy signaled, and Maisie and Hilda gripped hands.
“Good morning, and welcome to our new program, The Week in Westminster,” Miss Hamilton greeted the listeners. “Every week we will hear from different female members of Parliament, who will explain the workings of Parliament and the business before the House of the previous week. Our inaugural presenter is Lady Astor, MP for Plymouth, of the Conservative Party. Good morning, Lady Astor.”
“Thank you. I’m terrifically honored to be here and to assist in educating all the young ladies who have just enjoyed their first vote as to the workings of our system. I’ve talked to far too many ladies who think politics sounds too confusin’ to manage, or just a dreadful bore. I assure you, nothing is further from the truth. A lady does require a powerful voice, though, and some very serious backbone. Now, then . . .”